Towser

My hair hangs down on either side Like a Niagara small. Why is it this, my greatest pride, Should bring about my fall?

Why is it that my well brushed hair, That now so smoothly lies, As soon as I descend the stair Always gets in my eyes?

No wonder, thus deprived of sight, I step on empty air And to the bottom of the flight Rebound from stair to stair.

I’m not the sort of dog that cares To make a fuss when hit; But falling down a flight of stairs Is not the worst of it.

As there I lie completely out Of breath and very flat, Why is it always some one stout That takes me for a mat?